honest John to our notice are rude and graphic. The reformers inoculated them with a controversial and satiric meaning, and took them into the service of the kirk:-see how they tear off the scarlet robes from the Roman lady.

John Anderson my jo, John,
Come in as ye come by,
And ye shall get a sheep's head
Weel baken in a pie;
Weel baken in a pie, John,
A haggis in a pat;
John Anderson my jo, John,
Come in and yese get that.

And how do ye do, cummer-
How have ye thriven-
And how many bairns have ye?
Quoth the cummer, seven.
Are they a' your ain gudeman's?
Quoth the cummer, na,

For five o' them were gotten

When he was far awa.

The two lawful bairns were Baptism and the Lord's Supper; the spurious progeny were Penance, Confirmation, Extreme unction, Ordination, and Marriage. Those five illegitimate bairns of the scarlet lady were all rejected by the reformers.

PEGGY ALISON.

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
I ever mair defy them;

Young kings upon their hansel throne

Are no sae blest as I am!

I'll kiss thee yet, yet,

An' I'll kiss thee o'er again,

An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet,
My bonnie Peggy Alison!

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms,
I clasp my countless treasure,
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share,
Than sic a moment's pleasure!

And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
I swear I'm thine for ever;
And on thy lips I seal my vow,

And break it shall I never!

The name of Peggy Alison gives an air of truth and reality to this little warm and affectionate song, which the classical name of Chloe, Chloris, or Daphne, would fail to bestow. We imagine that the heroine has lived and breathed among us, and repaid the admiration of the poet by a smile and a salute-but we have no such lively feeling concerning the ladies of pastoral romance. The song is by Burns, and one of his early compositions.

CHEROKEE INDIAN DEATH SONG.

The sun sets in night, and the stars shun the day,
But glory remains when their lights fade away.
Begin, ye tormentors; your threats are in vain,
For the son of Alknomook will never complain.

Remember the arrows he shot from his bow;
Remember your chiefs by his hatchet laid low.
Why so slow? Do you wait till I shrink from the pain?
No! the son of Alknomook shall never complain.

Remember the wood where in ambush we lay,

And the scalps which we bore from your nation away. Now the flame rises fast; ye exult in my pain;

But the son of Alknomook can never complain.

I

go to the land where father is gone: my His ghost shall rejoice in the fame of his son. Death comes like a friend, to relieve me from pain; And thy son, O Alknomook, has scorn'd to complain!

The original power and happy genius of this song are universally felt. The tranquil heroism, the calm endurance and dignity of nature of the son of Alknomook, take possession of our hearts: we cannot forget,

if we would, the savage hero whose virtues the Muse of Campbell has dashed off in one happy line:

A stoic of the woods, a man without a tear.

It is the composition of Anne Home, wife of the celebrated John Hunter, and sister to Sir Everard Home, Bart.

THE EVENING STAR.

How sweet thy modest light to view,
Fair, star!-to love and lovers dear;
While trembling on the falling dew,
Like beauty shining through the tear;
Or hanging o'er that mirror-stream

To mark each image trembling there,-
Thou seem'st to smile with softer gleam
To see thy lovely face so fair.

Though blazing o'er the arch of night,
The moon thy timid beams outshine,
As far as thine each starry night-
Her rays can never vie with thine.
Thine are the soft enchanting hours,
When twilight lingers on the plain,
And whispers to the closing flow'rs

That soon the sun will rise again.

Thine is the breeze that, murmuring, bland

As music, wafts the lover's sigh,

And bids the yielding heart expand

In love's delicious ecstasy.

Fair star! though I be doom'd to prove

That rapture's tears are mix'd with pain;
Ah! still I feel 'tis sweet to love-

But sweeter to be lov'd again.

A poetic mind of no common order perished when John Leyden, the author of this pretty ode, died in the East. A slow and consuming illness seized upon him, and his laborious mind and conscientious heart would not allow his body proper repose. His happiest moments were when he recalled the hills and streams of his native Tiviotdale to his fancy. Sir John Malcolm, a countryman and a man of genius, sat down by his bed-side, and read him a letter from Scotland describing the enthusiasm of the volunteers of Liddisdale-summoned from their sleep by sound of drum and beacon-light-marching against an imaginary enemy, to the warlike border air of "Wha dare meddle wi' me" - Leyden's face kindled; he started up, and, with strange melody and wild gesticulation, sang aloud—

Wha dare meddle wi' me?

Wha dare meddle wi' me?